The Damage I've Done (Didn't Mean To Hurt You)
by capsicleironman
Summary: When Steve gets hit with an unknown curse, he becomes temporarily and irrationally violent. Tony pays the price.


It had been just another normal every day mission. Or at least as every day as they could get when the life of an Avenger included fighting your local baddy every other Tuesday, and your mediocre mad scientists come Thursdays. Thor, still annoyingly pleased that the Midgardian world had named a whole day after him, loved Thursdays no matter how many times they got beat up. He tossed his Mjölnir at approaching villains with undeniable glee and respectful apologies for any injuries he caused. (H had this thing—Steve called it a fair fight thing, Tony called it strange—but before every fight, Thor always declared "I accept your surrender" and only proceeded to kick their enemy's ass to kingdom come when his words were ignored.) That weeks villain, some teenager with a suspicious looking ray gun that kept turning nice passersby into an evil, homicidal mob, ignored Thor's declaration as always, and therefore got a Mjölnir flying at his left ear.

When he ducked away, an arrow came zooming at his kneecap thanks to Clint's keen (dare he say hawk-like) aim from up above. The kid ducked just in time, but not fast enough to miss Cap's shield zooming toward him and knocking all the air out of his lungs. He fell, sprawling into the dirt, gun flying out of his hands, and that should have been the end of it had a last burst of green not shot out the end of the gun and hit Cap square in the chest.

"Cap!" Tony yelled through the comm, the name 'Steve' weighing heavy on his lips and his heart, but they didn't use names over the comm for a reason—too dangerous and too reckless, even if the whole world already knew (secret identities were hardly their style, let alone possible—the New York Loki incident had made sure of that). But the code names kept them focused, kept them on task—a thin line between 'Cap, the murdery looking mob is closing in on your left' and 'Steve, what should we get for dinner tonight.' It was times like these, when one of them was injured or in danger, that the line really began to blur.

"I'm fine. Keep the crowd contained," Steve replied barely a heartbeat later. Even as Tony zoomed toward him through the air, he could see the Captain straightening up, brushing off the effects of the ray gun as casually as if he were swiping a bit of dust off his suit.

Natasha, on the ground and fighting off a large group of angry, cursed mailmen, tapped into the comm. "You mean mob," she said. Tony watched as she kicked an approaching man in the chest and sent him falling, hard, on his ass. Tony grinned in approval.

"Crowd," Steve corrected her. "They're civilians. Keep them contained, but keep the damage to a minimum."

"Cursed civilians," Clint said with a sigh. He sent another arrow into the crowd (this one equipped with a sleeping dart aimed to subdue, not kill—Tony was sure of it; he'd made them himself, and they were very much Cap approved).

Meanwhile, Thor was helping to hand the teenager wannabe scientist over to the police, and the Hulk was roaring in the distance, having been instructed to smash back at the tower. Steve had made the executive decision that it was best to see their furniture and infrastructure destroyed than any innocent bystanders as today's supervillain of the week was playing particular dirty by dragging civilians into his game. Though Tony was already mourning all the money he'd have to put into yet another repair on the tower, he couldn't help but agree.

It took them another hour to settle the fight, with the first forty minutes spent containing the mob, and the next twenty assisting said mob as they were all slowly beginning to wake up from whatever mind-control the teenager had cursed them with. Then there were the countless minutes of apologies and the time spent dealing with the police before finally the Avengers were allowed to go—tired and dirty and bleeding in a few different places, but steadfastly refusing to report to medical or—God help them all—another debrief.

Steve was usually pretty determined about these things—insisting that medical was important and anyone without super fast magical healing powers (Tony's words, not his) should report immediately to get checked out. He was less serious about debriefs; while he still went each and every time because he felt it was his duty and obligation as Captain (Tony had interrogated him about this frequently, and highly disagreed; Steve owed no one anything), even he knew how boring they were and, quite aware of the "unique characters" that made up his team, seemed to have given up trying to drag in the rest of them—a fact for which Tony was eternally grateful.

That afternoon, however, Steve seemed oddly subdued. Though he looked at the cut on Clint's arm with concern and insisted that it be cleaned and bandaged, though he grabbed an icepack for Natasha's bruising cheek and checked Tony over head to toe for injuries the second he took off the suit, the words 'medical' and 'doctor's never once left his lips. Having been on the receiving end of Steve's responsibility and 'personal well-being' lectures for over a year now—first as a teammate, then as a friend, and finally as his lover—Tony thought he would have been more excited about this. But it just felt so damn odd. Go figure that he'd spend half his time wishing Steve would worry less only to miss the worry when it disappeared.

When the last of his armor had been packed away and Steve deemed Tony fit to move around the cabin (tower), the super soldier turned away without a word and headed toward the living room. (Strange, again—Steve never walked away after a fight; there were always 'you're alive' kisses and 'we won' kisses and 'I hate seeing you hurt' kisses, and as mushy and sappy as it was, it had become Tony's favorite part of any work day).

Tony reached for his boyfriend's hand and gently pulled him back into his arms.

"What's going on?" he asked. He ran a hand over the side of Steve's face then tangled his fingers through the man's hair. "He hit you. Are you sure—"

"I'm fine, Tony." Steve pressed a quick, almost patronizing kiss to Tony's forehead that felt a hell of a lot more dismissive than it did loving, then he crossed the room and disappeared into the kitchen to make himself lunch.

It was Natasha's turn to pick a movie that night, so naturally it was full of forbidden romances and buckets of blood. She sat on the couch with her feet in Clint's lap while he texted a mysterious "someone" they all knew was Coulson—a big, dopey grin crossing over the archer's face with every new message. On the single chair beside them was Bruce, only half watching the movie and half running calculations for his newest project, and beneath him, Thor and Jane lay on the ground in a human cocoon of blankets, kissing softly and ignoring the movie entirely.

Tony and Steve had their own designated couch that had practically been quarantined since they got together, the others not to wanting to be anywhere around their quote on quote "honeymoon phase." Tony might have argued the point if it hadn't been so damn true; on any other night, he'd be sitting with his head in Steve's lap, tapping away at a Starkpad while the super soldier stroked his hair and occasionally leaned down for a kiss. It was disgustingly sentimental and over the top, with the two whispering nicknames and 'I love you's in the dark, and Tony wouldn't have changed a second of it for all the world.

Gushy Steve was one of Tony's favorite—and there were many to choose from. There was Captain-In-Uniform Steve (hot), and Command-Giving Steve (very hot), and Post-Sex-Naked-And-Sweaty Steve (very very hot), but there was also Sleep-Mussed Steve with big puppy dog eyes and squeaky yawns, and Doting-and-Concerned Steve who dragged Tony out of his workshop after a long day of tinkering and coffee binging. But Gushy Steve—with his eyes bright and his wandering hands, whispering promises of forever into Tony's mouth—that Steve was the best.

Gushy Steve did not make an appearance that night.

Though Tony lounged across his boyfriend's lap as per usual, working away at his newest project, he couldn't help but notice the stiffness of Steve's posture or the very obvious lack of Steve's hand in his hair. Where normally Steve leaned into Tony, tonight, he leaned away—cold, rigid, and distant.

Tony tried to ignore it; he told himself that everyone had off days, and that that the fight had taken a lot out of them all, and it was normal to be a bit frustrated by the insanity that was their lives. He told himself it was to be expected, that the "honeymoon" phase never lasted forever (though he'd sort of hoped it would last until they actually had a honeymoon or at least, you know, got married); he told himself he was overreacting and over thinking things and doubting himself—doubting their relationship—just as he always did and never should. His own stubborn inability to see the good things right in front of him had, after all, delayed their initial "getting together" for several months. He wouldn't—couldn't—go back there.

But for all his internal arguments and forced explanations, Tony couldn't get past one small, simple little fact: Steve had never held back any sort of affection before; in fact, after battle—when he was most put out, most tired, most frustrated with the world—was when Steve was most affectionate. It was in those moments when life was hardest that Steve fell into Tony, not away. Times like these were when Steve seemed to gravitate toward him, to wrap his arms around him and kiss him as though Tony's lips were the only thing in the world that could make the pain fade away.

It was a roll Tony had taken on with enthusiasm. Perhaps he'd been hesitant at first, scared that this was all a dream, scared that Steve would change, scared of getting his heart broken again, but when it came down to it, Tony knew that Steve's side was the only place in the world he'd want to be, and for the last several months, he'd thought that was what Steve had wanted too.

Perhaps he'd been wrong.

They were different—of course they were. An idealist and a realist, they saw the world in two different lights, but they were both endlessly stubborn, ready to break the rules whenever and wherever the situation called for it (within moral reason for Steve, and when Tony felt in his heart that it was right). They were both passionate about their work, and they'd been passionate about each other. Could the passion really have faded this fast?

Tony always knew that they existed within a limit—how long could Steve be expected to put up with Tony's crazy work schedule, his drinking, his inability to remember a single anniversary or Valentine's day—of course he'd grow tired of it. Of course he'd want out. Sooner or later, Tony always knew they'd come to this point—Steve stepping away and Tony clinging on, grasping at straws, desperate for a love that was seeping away. He'd only hoped it'd be 'later' rather than sooner—later rather than now.

Tony was laying back flat on a sparring mat in the lower level gym. It was cold and squishy with enough padding and give to break his fall nicely (it should; he made it), but it provided nothing in way of defeating Natasha's well-trained kicks. Twenty-four hours since the evil-spewing-ray-gun wielding teenager, and they all should have been resting, licking their wounds and hiding away from the world; Natasha—oh highly determined and skilled ninja-warrior-super-spy-badass that she was—took 'rest' to mean 'practice' and had insisted on a sparring session that afternoon. Tony, stubborn and hot-headed enough to say yes, even a year after he'd met her, had long surpassed 'regret' and was rounding the corner on 'complete surrender.' At this rate, he'd never feel his back again.

Groaning, he pulled himself up off the mat and got back into position, blocking Natasha's first two hits before she caught him in the side once more.

She grinned—a thin-lipped, victorious smirk that Tony had once thought was evil but had learned over time was actually playful—teasing even. With Natasha, you learned to take getting your ass kicked as a display of friendship, and the fact that you were still alive a symbol of her unspoken love. "You give up yet, Stark?" she teased.

Tony raised an eyebrow skeptically, thought of all the broken ribs he was bound to have if he lived through another hour of this, then said (the genius that he was), "Me? Nah, I can go all day. Bring it own, Spidey."

And it was for that, he was sure—the comparison to the red-and-blue spandex clad kid who was always asking (begging) to join the Avengers—that resulted in Tony flat on his back and wincing all over again.

Tony liked to think he was in phenomenal shape for his age (which was not that high, thank you very much; he didn't look a day over twenty, or twenty-five, okay, fine, thirty max. And as the only member of their team without formal training of some sort (minus the Hulk, but that was just cheating), he held his own, suit or not, with generally enough skill to surprise anyone that underestimated him (usually the bad guys). But no one—not Steve in his super soldier strength or Thor in his god-like-warrior-whatever—could outfight Natasha, and it was a fact he'd cling to until his dying days.

Tony had just stumbled back to his feet, stupidly preparing for another round, when Steve entered the gym, spotted the two of them in the ring, and headed over. Tossing his bag onto the ground, he climbed up and took Natasha's spot on the opposite side of the mat.

"You mind?" he asked her. Her eyebrows twitched slightly—as 'surprised' as she'd ever show—before she nodded and stepped out of the ring. She soon disappeared from the gym.

Steve raised his fists and advanced immediately. Luckily, Tony's flight or fight defenses kicked in fast enough for him to block the first couple of hits. Otherwise his sheer surprise would have had him falling onto his back for the third time in an hour.

"Nice to see you too, Sweetheart," Tony said as he ducked beneath Steve's next punch. He stayed on the defense, swerving, blocking, and ducking, but avoiding hitting Steve himself.

It was stupid, really—they were both superheroes, both in need of constant training and physical practice, and at first, they'd sparred almost every day (ending up on top of one another, sweaty and gasping for breath was a welcome occurrence when they were still holding back all their admittedly obvious-to-everyone-but-them sexual tension). But six months ago—two months after they accidentally started dating, and the moment they started officially dating—they'd stopped sparring all together. Steve said he didn't want to hit someone he was in a relationship with, even if it was just for practice, said it felt wrong and abusive, and he knew that was silly, knew neither of them wanted to actually hurt each other when they sparred, but he couldn't help the way he felt. Tony, who'd had his share of abusive relationships and would rather wrestle Steve to the ground in the bedroom than the gym anyway, had easily agreed.

So this—the two of them fighting hand to hand out of the blue—wasn't new, wasn't even bad, but it just wasn't Steve.

Whether they were lying on the couch doing nothing or going at each other in the shower, Steve was always aware of his strength, and, if Tony was being honest, always held it back. It wasn't something he generally liked to admit—that Steve had to go easy on him, that he had to be "gentle" with him—but Tony was only human, and Steve could break every bone in his body if he'd wanted to.

For the first time in his life, Tony sort of thought Steve might.

Steve wasn't hitting Tony like he wanted to practice; he was hitting him like he wanted to do damage, and it was a side of the super soldier he'd never seen before—a side he hadn't even known existed until that moment.

"Okay, okay," Tony said finally, raising his hands in surrender. He could fight Steve, sure, (at least he could damn well try) but it didn't mean he wanted to. "Can we talk for a second? What'd I do? Obviously, I've fucked up here, I can see that, and I'm sure I'm really, really sorry—I am really, really sorry. But can you fill me in here? Did I miss an anniversary, a birthday, did I say something in my sleep, what?"

Rather than answer, Steve punched him in the face, and, okay, that was unexpected, and Tony could feel his lip bleeding and a bruise rising in his cheek, but mostly he could feel the panic in his chest and a screaming in his head that was more of a repeated no, not him, I couldn't have been wrong about him than anything remotely intelligible. Before he could do much more than steel himself for another blow, Steve aimed for the reactor, and everything in Tony shattered all at once. Metaphorically speaking, that is; he'd built the reactor to withstand far more than an angry punch from a super soldier. It didn't break, it didn't falter, didn't stop for even a second, and yet Tony sort of wished it had—dying would have been far easier than realizing that Steve—his best friend, his lover, the man he'd been building his future around—was actively trying to kill him.

As Tony blocked hit after hit, each one more murderous than the last, he went over the possible explanations in his head:

A.) Steve had been replaced with a clone or a shape-shifting alien sent to kill him. Stranger things had happened.

B.) That green burst out on the field that Steve claimed hadn't affected him had, in fact, made him just as murderous as the evil civilian mob.

or C.) Being in a relationship with Tony had tested Steve's patience on every level, and he'd come out of it as a homicidal psychopath.

Tony decided on option D—this situation fucking sucked—just as a particularly hard blow to his gut sent him—yes—falling on his back. Steve was on top of him in a heartbeat, pinning Tony's arms to the mat and his significant muscle wait effectively keeping Tony from rising up or moving his legs at all. One of Steve's hands clamped down on Tony's throat, and Tony saw stars.

"Steve," he gasped, choking and searching through watering eyes for his boyfriend's face—the face that, up until that moment, had always promised safety, love, kindness—never this, never violence without a cause, never hatred. "Steve wake up."

Steve's grip tightened. From somewhere in the distance, Tony thought he could hear muffled voices and a door swinging open, but everything in his world had become a haze—a growing darkness closing in, and it took everything in his power not to fall back, to get lost in the wormhole, in the dark coldness of space, and Obadiah's looming sneer as the arc reactor was pulled out of his chest, gasping for air as he was drowned in a cave in Afghanistan. Tony blinked and there was Steve's face again, and he couldn't die this way, not with Steve glaring at him with murder written in every twitch of his jaw, in the normally soft blue of his eyes.

Tony reached blindly across the mat until his hand touched something hard and metallic—a knife. He could faintly remember Natasha stabbing into the mat for "safe keeping" after he'd declared their spar a weaponless fight; had that really only happened an hour ago? The memory felt a lifetime away—a different world where Tony actually had friends he wasn't paying and a relationship he didn't fear, and he'd tricked himself into thinking that life was good.

But all good things came to an end.

Tony plucked the knife out of the mat and jabbed it into Steve's side, calculating with his last seconds of conscious sanity the spot that would cause the least damage—a wound to distract and, he prayed, nothing more.

Steve howled in pain and released his grip on Tony's neck just as Natasha appeared from behind. She grabbed Steve by the shoulders and flipped him around, pinning him to the ground; half a second later, Clint joined her, arrows at the ready, Thor stepped forward, and the Hulk roared in the doorway.

Tony, coughing and gasping, watched through blurry eyes as Steve fought beneath his friends' grip. Slowly, the Avengers subdued him into surrender like they would with any other Villain-of-the-day.

Steve was in medical for over an hour. Tony watched outside his room as the Captain progressed from fighting the nurses to simply arguing with them—insistent that he had to get out because he had explanations to give and apologies to make, and where, he asked, was Tony, he had to find Tony; please I have to explain, I have to apologize, please. He became more and more frantic by the second, fidgeting and staring down at his hands. Tony wondered if Steve was remembering the same thing he was—those hands wrapped around his neck and squeezing the life out of him with all the ease of a boot stomping out an ant. He traced the dark bruises that now littered his throat and contemplated for the thousandth time stepping into Steve's room and ending the man's worry right then and there.

Five more minutes passed, and his feet still refused to move.

Luckily, Bruce—the saint (Tony made a mental note to buy him something nice the next chance he got)—chose that moment to exit Steve's room and come to stand by Tony's side. Several silent seconds later, he said, in response to Tony's unasked question, "He's fine. You can't even tell he was hurt; it's already healed. You didn't do any damage. He's okay. Going out of his mind worrying about you, but okay."

Tony let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"It was definitely whatever was in that ray gun the kid was using," Bruce continued. "Because of the serum, it took longer to affect him and wore off faster, but all the tests came back the same as the civilians'. He had no idea what he was doing." Bruce stopped, and it was only after a long moment of silence that Tony realized he was waiting for him to say something. When, still, Tony refused, Bruce sighed and ran a hand over his too-tired and too-stressed face; Bruce was too young, too good to be as warn out as he was.

"Maybe you two just need some space," he said finally.

Tony did not reply but watched as Steve ripped out his IV and began scrambling through his belongings where they'd been laid out on the bedside table. He found his phone and, within seconds, Tony felt his own vibrate in his pocket.

He didn't pick up.

The team had just finished eating dinner—a chaotic affair of broken dishes, a stained couch (because Clint refused to eat at the table), and a bill that would soon revoke Tony's billionaire status—when Steve entered the kitchen. The room fell silent, and then,

"We have a meeting," Bruce said.

"What? No we—" Clint began, but broke off as he was met with a deathly glare from Natasha. "Oh right, the meeting," he said, and he, Natasha, Bruce, and Thor all left the room as quickly as their feet would take them.

By the look on Steve's face, Tony couldn't tell if he was happy or terrified to be alone with him; Tony didn't know himself, for that matter. He wasn't scared of Steve—that he was sure of; while the incident hadn't been a pleasant one, Steve had not been in his right mind—had not been at fault, and yet, judging by the darkened, self-loathing expression now crossing the super soldier's face, it seemed Steve disagreed.

"Tony." His name left Steve's lips like a gasp, a desperate, horrified groan. Tony had heard Steve say his name a dozen different ways—with love, disapproval, amusement, lust, even anger, but this was, by far, the worst.

"It's not that bad," Tony said dismissively. He reached for the coffee pot and filled his over-sized mug to the brim.

"Not that bad?" Steve repeated. "Tony, I almost killed you." His eyes were impossibly huge and—were those tears?

Tony longed to comfort him, to chase away the pain before it could spill over, but something—something ugly, something he had yet to define—held him back and glued him to his spot on the opposite side of the kitchen.

Steve took a tentative step forward. "Tony, you have to know that wasn't me. You can't think I'd ever actually hurt you. I swear, I never would. I never meant—"

"Steve, it's fine," Tony cut over him. With his coffee held firmly in one hand, he took a step closer to Steve, and the man's face brightened—if only for a second. "It was an accident. It's not a big deal, so let's not make a thing out of it, okay?"

All the hope drained from Steve's face in one fell swoop, and his eyes narrowed. "Of course it's a thing. Tony, it's a big thing."

He eyed Tony over wearily and, not for the first time, he felt the unmistakable sensation that he was being x-rayed, as though Steve could see right through him, could pick him apart to the bone.

"You're not okay," Steve said finally. It was not a question, but a decisive—albeit depressing—declaration.

Tony opened his mouth to argue when suddenly Steve crossed the room and stopped just inches from Tony's body. He reached out a shaking hand, his fingers ghosting over the bruises he had left behind before they settled on an unbruised portion of Tony's cheek.

He flinched before he could stop himself.

Steve reacted like he'd been burned; not only did his hand fall away, but he jumped back a good two feet, expression terrified and guiltier than ever. "Tony, I'm sorry. I'm—" He ran his hands over his face, and for a moment, Tony remembered what he looked like right when he woke up—morning breath and crooked smile, hair sticking up in every direction, as threatening and frightening as a puppy and just as lovable.

Unfortunately, the all too fresh image of Steve's hateful glare looming above him sort of blocked out everything else.

Forcing a smile (which was stupid, honestly; if anyone could tell the difference between his real smile and his paparazzi one, it was Steve, but Tony knew nothing else: 'fake it until you make it' was practically the Stark motto), Tony assured Steve with well-practiced enthusiasm and orchestrated sincerity that everything was perfectly, completely okay. Even as he took his coffee and retreated down to his workshop, he couldn't quite miss the devastated, agonizing look that crossed over his boyfriend's face.

Tony was drowning. The sparks radiated out from his chest and surged throughout his entire body. Somewhere in the distance, Obadiah was laughing because his plan had worked—promise him family, and Tony, as love deprived and desperate as he was, would fall for it every time. Obie—Obadiah, never Obie, not anymore—had fooled him for years with his "good job, Son" and his pats on the back and his warm smile as he secretly plotted Tony's assassination. Obadiah who had ruined any chance Tony ever had of learning to trust—the father figure replacement that turned out worse than his own father.

Tony was drowning and he could pretend it didn't bother him all he wanted, could smile for the cameras and lie through his teeth—I'm fine, repeated a thousand times—but in the darkness, there was nothing but him and his past, and he was drowning. Drowning in the blood of the lives his weapons had taken, drowning in his father's taunts and his fists, drowning in Yinsen's last dying breath, and Obadiah's smirk, and the cold, empty expanse of space. And as he watched the nuke explode from inside the Chitauri's ship, it exploded within him as well.

Tony woke with a start, gasping for air because in his dreams there was never enough of it—drowning or lost in space, his father's hand on his throat, or the arc reactor pressing into his lungs, he was always fighting to breathe, always counting his last breaths. He reached through the darkness for an artist's calloused fingers, a glimpse of tangled blond hair and the rise and fall of firm unyielding chest—Steve, who knew what it was like to be haunted by your own head, Steve who didn't have to say a word to make it all drift away.

Tony felt nothing under his fingertips but empty, wrinkled sheets.

Three days passed, and Steve never came back to bed. In fact, the longest interaction they had was during an awkward morning shuffle where they both reached for the frozen waffles at the same time, apologized, then unanimously decided they weren't much in the mood for waffles anyway, and broke off—Steve for the gym, and Tony for his workshop. It was, in short, hell on Earth, and Tony was certain that if he had to endure another day of their tip-toe routine, he'd surely blow his brains out with his own repulsors.

So when two in the morning rolled around, and everyone was theoretically asleep (Tony knew full well that Bruce was still working in his lab, Natasha was out on the balcony watching the city lights for reasons unknown to anyone but her, Clint was yet again raiding the kitchen, and Thor, what with his vicious brotherly nightmares, was probably in the library), Tony surfaced from his latest project and embarked on another far more important quest: finding Steve.

It wasn't hard. Whether he was frustrated at himself or the world, whether he was hiding from the past or from his dreams, Steve always took to the gym to thoroughly massacre Tony's last shipment of punching bags.

Tony knew where to find Steve, but it didn't mean he wasn't disappointed to be right.

Once they'd gotten together, Steve had found better ways to deal with the nightmares, the best of which included burying his face into Tony's shoulder and allowing the sound of the arc reactor to lull him back into a peaceful sleep (a fact he'd confessed to Tony three months after they started dating, his blush in full force; just three days gone, and Tony already missed that blush). Steve was a proud man, but for the last few months, he'd set it all aside to lean on Tony instead. Mutual demon chasing was what they did best as a couple, and Tony was no longer ashamed to admit that he needed it just as much, if not more, than Steve did.

Now, 2am and alone, Steve's demons were written all over his face, and his knuckles bled from the force with which he hit the poor unfortunate punching bag.

"Keep at it like that, and I'm going to have to order a new shipment," Tony said as he approached.

Steve blinked, not quite surprised (it took more than an impromptu greeting in the gym to startle a super soldier), but not quite comfortable either. Steve appeared as far from "at ease" as a man could be—his eyes dark and heavy from a lack of sleep and his fists never missing a beat, even as his focus turned away from the bag and toward Tony instead. "Stay away from me," he said simply.

Tony wrinkled up his nose, advancing anyway until he stood just a few inches from the side of the punching bag, close enough to make his presence unavoidable, but not so close that he would get in the way of Steve's routine. "You know, I've never really been good at taking orders," he said. "But you know that. Or you would if you were still paying attention and you know, not going completely MIA. Anyway: orders—not a thing I do well. I'm working on it; it's not going well. We're sort of incompatible. Drives my boyfriend crazy. He's also kind of my Captain, leader of this team I'm on and all, but he eats all of my eggs and steals the blankets in my bed, so I figure we're even."

Steve's mouth twitched slightly, not a smile, but not really anything else. He punched the bag—twice with each fist—and remained silent.

"I miss you," Tony said and this time he was laid bare—jokes gone, humor gone, all pretenses that things were fine, that his world wasn't falling apart without Steve by his side—gone. "Steve, I can't sleep when you're not around. I can't work. Which makes no sense because that's what I do. When life sucks—and it does, a lot of the time—I work. I tinker. I…build when the world is falling apart, and I've never needed anyone for that before, but I go down to my workshop and Dum-E is sulking, and the couch where you're always sitting is empty, and Baby, I know it's only been a couple of days and you need time, but I'm a crappy clingy boyfriend and you knew that when you signed up for this, and it's a little late for you to be backing out now—"

"Tony," Steve cut him off. He dropped his hands to his sides. His fists—still clenched tightly—had began to shake. "We can't just pretend that nothing happened."

"Who's pretending?" Tony asked. "I know what happened. And it sucks. But this—you hiding down here and us not talking—that sucks more. Believe me, Steve, I'm well aware of what happened." He fought the urge to rub at the fading bruises on his neck. "But it wasn't you, and it's never going to be you. But I'll be damned if I lose you for something some punk ass kid made you do because he got bored with his homework."

Steve opened his mouth to reply then quickly closed it again, a dark look crossing over his face. With an audible growl, he punched the bag in front of him with enough force to knock it off the ceiling and send it splitting in half, beads scattered in every direction across the floor. "Look!" he snarled. "Look what I do. Look what my hands can do. I break everything I touch."

Tony contemplated the sad carcass of a punching bag for a long moment. Then, without a word, he crossed the room, picked up a new bag, and hung it off the hook where the previous one had been a minute before.

"Yeah," he said. "And I fix things."

Tony straddled Steve's waist, his hands splayed across the super solder's chest. He sucked a hickey into his boyfriend's shoulder as the sun faded beyond the last of the tower windows; Tony's reactor was now the only source of light in the room. As he ran his hands over Steve's chest, his fingers ghosting along every muscle, every freckle, every inch of smooth, unblemished skin, he watched the way light cascaded over the man's body and the bed beneath him—staining everything from Steve's light skin to the white of the sheets an unmistakable, Tony-blue.

Steve had coined the phrase several months back during that awkward period of just-starting-to date and general confusion over what that meant. Long before they'd ever become a "them"—a Steve and Tony team rather than a Steve and a Tony, as Clint had so eloquently put it—they'd already settled into a routine. Down in Tony's workshop or out on the town, they already spent all of their time together, and whether they were ready to admit it or not, they'd already fallen hard. It was impractical and irrational, but they'd skipped right past 'casual dating' and found themselves instantly at the 'I love you' stage. It was easy to qualify for that particular level when you'd spent the previous year both tiptoeing over the fact that you were in love with your best friend.

It had been back during one of these nights—when they were both still so unsure of where they stood, still searching for that line—when Steve had insisted on drawing Tony. For almost two hours, he worked on his sketch while Tony tried and failed not to squirm under Steve's artistic scrutiny. In the end, Steve had scrapped the whole thing, crumpling his hard work into a ball and tossed it into the bin; the color, he claimed, was all wrong—the wrong shade blue. It wasn't, he said, a Tony-blue.

Naturally, Tony had gone out the next day and had an entire batch of colored pencils made in the exact color of his reactor, not because he cared much about it (in fact, the less he thought about the reactor, the better) but because when Steve opened the box, he smiled so brightly Tony was sure that the sun had collapsed and taken up permanent residence in his chest.

Now, as the two lay in the Tony-blue illuminated darkness, Tony tried to think like an artist and to truly appreciate the masterpiece that lay beneath him. If there was anything he'd learned over the last week, it was that good things were worth appreciating; you never knew when they'd disappear, when they'd be pulled right out of your desperate, clinging grasp.

It wasn't hard—imagining Steve to be a work of art. In many ways, he actually was. The perfect specimen of human perfection, the original super soldier, the epitome of strength and goodness. Steve was, in a word, perfect—not a scar or blemish to be found.

Tony traced his hands over Steve's chest, down his abs, and then across hips, his thighs and back up to his sides. He stopped over the place where the knife had penetrated—his knife. His fault.

On any other man, there would have been a scar, and yet it was now impossible to tell that an injury had ever taken place at all. Another one of Tony's mistakes swept under the rug, another fault to drink away.

"I shouldn't have done it," he whispered. "You might not have known what you were doing, but I did. I knew I was hurting you. I shouldn't—"

His voice died away as Steve reached out and took both of Tony's hands in his. Softly, he pressed a kiss to each of Tony's fingertips, then the palms of both his hands. When he'd finished, he cupped Tony's face and pulled him in for a long, firm kiss.

"Don't apologize," Steve said when, finally, they pulled away. "You did what you had to do. You didn't have any choice. You had to, and Tony, promise me you'd do it again. Promise me you'll never stop fighting."

His expression was so heartbreakingly earnest—so generally, horribly worried—that Tony couldn't find it in himself to argue. Stroking a thumb over Tony's cheek, Steve continued, "If I ever hurt you, no matter what's happening, whether I'm brainwashed or cursed or—whatever it might be at the time—you do what you have to—whatever you have to do. Tony, do you understand me?"

"Yeah, yeah, I understand," Tony agreed, and if he'd still been in middle school, he would have crossed his fingers behind his back to hide the lie, but at least it made a bit of the worry and guilt that had so consumed Steve over the last few days drain away. His shoulders settled back into the bed, his muscles relaxing and his anxious flush dissipating.

Steve was a hero born and bread, selfless to his very core, the Bully-Hunter-Extraordinaire, and of course he'd say that—of course he'd tell Tony to value his life first, to pick himself, to fight the good fight. But the way Tony saw it, Steve was the best fight he'd ever get and the onlyfight he'd ever want; given the option, he'd pick Steve every time.

Happy, no doubt, with Tony's easy agreement—a rare feat in any of their arguments—Steve smiled, and wasn't that a sight for sore eyes. Tony could feel that little pitter-patter in his heart like he was ten years old all over again and staring at his Captain America poster on the wall, except instead of mentally undressing Good ol' Cap to fuel his wet dreams, he undressed him to get down to Steve—the hero, not the national icon; the good man, not the good leader; a real, tangible, Steve Rogers.

Tony stripped off his shirt, and Steve stripped off his, and they soon fell together into a tangle of sheets and skin, and them, and everything Tony refused to lose, damn the costs, damn the world (particularly the magical curse-giving parts of the world) all to hell.

Monday morning came and with it, the newest villain of the week—go figure. Thankfully, this one was a full-fledged adult. He had no gun or evil scientist super ray, but at eight feet tall (at least), he towered over them all, even Thor. The creature seemed to have static for brains, translucent skin, and a growl that literally sent mailboxes combusting and light poles swaying from the force of his truly awful morning breath.

Got to love Mondays.

"We accept your surrender!" Thor yelled from the ground, his hammer raised just high enough to be intimidating, but not quite so high that it promised a threat. The creature growled, sending Thor skidding two feet backwards across the street. And that was it—game over—no more nice guy; Thor raised his hammer over his head and began swinging.

"Mr. I Hate Mondays over here is in for it now," Tony said, whistling impressively as he watched the sky go dark, courtesy of Thor and his growing rage. Tony flew over the creature's head in the Iron Man suit, shooting repulsor beams into the soft parts of the creature's skull—or at least the mushy white areas that looked soft; it was hard to tell with this thing. Honestly, he wasn't sure it had brains at all.

"Iron Man! We need back up down here," Steve—er, Cap—called from the ground.

"Aye Aye, Captain." Tony came in low, hitting the creature with a few more well-aimed shots on his way down before he landed with a thud in front of Steve (and in the process, left a very small barely noticeable—okay, he'll pay for it—dent in the pavement).

As the creature spewed something in their direction that looked a lot like fiery mucus (this just kept getting better), Steve raised his shield and effectively blocked the both of them from the white muck. It stuck to the red, white, and blue of his most prized accessory, but one good shake sent it all splattering onto the ground.

"I have never loved you more than I do right now," Tony said, and his voice came across in that metallic click of the Iron Man suit—hardly romantic—but Steve smiled all the same.

"If you think that's impressive, just watch this," he said. He turned—lightening fast—just in time to leap into the air and catch another sticky blast mid jump.

Tony whistled impressively and tried hard not to laugh. "Not bad, but—" Tony turned and blasted a third mucus bomb out of the air, sending it spraying back into the creature's face. Steve twitched slightly under the cowl, and Tony knew he too was struggling not to laugh.

To say their relationship was unconventional was an understatement; to say it was actually sort of fun spending their mornings fighting lightning blasting, snot-shooting monsters was complete insanity. Tony could already feel the bruises rising under his skin where the metal was denting in from impact, and Steve's sleeve and pant legs were badly ripped. Across the square, Natasha spit a mouthful of blood onto the ground and sent an army's worth of bullets into the creature's chest. Clint was hanging over the edge of a ten-story building shooting explosive arrows wherever he could get the shot (and almost always did). Thor was in full lightening God of Thunder attack, and Bruce had Hulked out long ago and was now running wild over the street. Tony watched as he jumped onto the creature's shoulders and wrapped his big green arms around its neck and smashing in whatever way he could.

So this was Monday morning, and it probably should have sucked—sometimes it did—but Steve stood tall by his side, blocking where he could and ducking at just the right times to allow Tony to shoot over his shoulder—their movements perfectly synchronized even when they were flying by the seat of their pants. Thor's booming laughter echoed across Times Square and Tony was going to lose every last dime he owned trying to clean up this mess later,(figuratively speaking; billionaire, remember?) but there was no place in the world he'd rather be.

A year ago this time, he might have been hiding down in his workshop avoiding a dozen calls from Pepper about the board meeting he was currently missing (he was still getting those calls, but JARVIS was helpful enough to place them in a 'look at and ignore later' folder at the bottom of his helmet's digital screen). That was a boring Monday morning. This? Well, this was a whole new world, and it went wrong more times than it went right and it was dangerous at best and damn suicidal at worst, but it worked for them—worked for him.

"Iron Man, on your left!" Cap yelled through the comm and Tony shot up in the air just in time to avoid a glowing blob of something he was itching to identify and, at the same time, also quite against ever having to touch.

"Thanks Cap," he called back. Steve looked up from his place on the ground and saluted him. "So," Tony said "About dinner tonight—"

"We are not going to a naked restaurant. That's completely unsanitary."

"But Steveee-"

"No, Tony."

Tony sent a couple of his own bombs sailing into the creature's soft underbelly. It howled in pain, weakening but not quite out for the count just yet. "You're no fun, Cap," Tony continued. He was on autopilot now; his hands might be fighting, but his mind was all on Steve. "You've got to learn to live a little."

"By your definition of living, I'd be dead by now," Steve said.

Natasha cut across them through the comms. "If you two don't shut up about your dating life, I will shoot you myself," she snapped.

Steve and Tony both immediately fell silent…well, at least for a minute.

"So sushi then?" Tony whispered.

A bullet nearly missed his left shoulder. "I love you too, Nat!" He called.

From somewhere below, Steve sighed fondly.


End file.
